


Your Herman Miller Heart

by Aeolian



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Developing Relationship, Friendship, M/M, Nick Fury Knows All, Nick Fury is Not Amused, Slow Build, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 12:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2850827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aeolian/pseuds/Aeolian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, Tony knows things. He knows the California Building Standards Code back to back, every item on the LEED checklist and their point value, that the dining set you've saved to your Houzz ideabook will clash tragically with your wall paint, seriously, stop searing his eyeballs, and knows that Natasha chucking her stiletto heels at the office coffee table before she's even in the door bodes nothing but evil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Herman Miller Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [krusca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/krusca/gifts).



> This fic was inspired by [this post](http://sineala.tumblr.com/post/105891144184/tony-stark-interior-designer-you-know-this-room) on Sineala's tumblr, originally by krusca.
> 
> Merry Christmas, guys!
> 
> Note: I am not an interior designer, nor do I live in California. Please let me know if I got anything wrong. Thanks!

So, Tony knows things. He knows the California Building Standards Code back to back, every item on the LEED checklist and their point value, that the dining set you've saved to your Houzz ideabook will clash tragically with your wall paint, seriously, stop searing his eyeballs, and knows that Natasha chucking her stiletto heels at the office coffee table before she's even in the door bodes nothing but evil.

Mostly for Tony.

So Tony does the sane thing, hangs up on the contractor in the line, and flees for the bathroom, the only safe haven from the Valkyrie from hell. Clint, dozing on the sofa without his hearing aids, isn't so lucky.

"Ow! What the hell, woman? I still need that!"

"Trust me, I'm doing the women of the world a favor."

"Why the hell are you so mean? Hey, hey, no--"

Tony's phone buzzes. It's the contractor, Danny, bitching at him for hanging up.

There's a scraping sound. Tony, thumbs hovering over his iPhone screen, suddenly realizes it's been quiet for far too long. The door swings open, Natasha, hair and eyes wild, looming in the doorway.

"Oi! I'm doing important business in here! Important, private business! What if I had my pants down? It could traumatize me for life," babbles Tony, pressing himself into the far corner, trying to find something to defend himself with. He brandishes the toilet scrubber like a sword.

Natasha just rolls her eyes.

"Like I haven't seen it before," she growls, "Tony, I swear to god--"

"Look, you have to respect my artistic sensibilities--"

"--which lost us another home--"

"--which means they weren't the right client. Look, we can't demand better margins if--"

"--As opposed to what, none at all?"

"If we just--"

There's a piercing whistle. Natasha swivels her head almost all the way around--the woman's flexibility would be hot if it weren't so terrifying--to glare at Clint, standing atop the coffee table, thumb and forefinger still in his mouth.

"Okay, time out," he says, actually crossing his forearms in a tee, the cheeseball, "Tony, you're right in that we need to maintain a certain image."

Tony starts to puff up in satisfaction, but the look Natasha shoots in his direction punches the air right out of his ego.

"And Tasha, you're right in that we need to make sales."

"We haven't made a single sale this quarter," she sniffs, "And we're still sitting on four properties."

"Which are bleeding cash money every month," agrees Clint, "In fact, I checked with Bruce this morning, and he says we don't have enough in the bank to justify buying another house, let alone at the pace we're buying them at."

Tony opens his mouth to retort, but Natasha beats him to it, arms akimbo.

"Bottom line is, if we don't flip a house this month, the Avengers are over."

 

He lets them take the rest of the day off while he mulls over the ultimatum, the office turning back into his apartment with the last click of heels out the door. Tony realizes the irony in flipping multi-million dollar homes out of his shoebox studio apartment, but hey, at least he's investing in real estate. It's what Forbes magazine recommends, right? He flops on his pull-out sofa, too tired to even pull out the bed.

He'd started the Avengers four years ago, dropping out of M.I.T. with what little inheritance money Obie hadn't fucked him out of, with Thor and far more courage (or just higher B.A.C.) than he had these days. Along the way, they had picked up Pepper the insurance goddess and future lawyer, Clint the half-spider monkey half-renovator, Bruce the boring accountant by day, party beast by night--or so Tony's working him towards being, and Natasha the real estate assassin.

"So why do you call yourself Avengers?" Natasha had purred, blouse unbuttoned one too far, back when they hadn't known each other at all.

"It is a grand tale, full of twists and turns," boomed Thor, on Tony's other side, "Once, we were named Scavengers, for we scavenged houses upon the strand."

" _Stark's_ Scavengers," corrected Tony, over the rim of his whiskey, neat.

"Aye, it is so," said Thor, swigging an Einstok porter, his third for the night, "But 'twas a hardship upon the tongue."

"And so Renaissance Faire here told everyone we were the 'Stavengers'," said Tony, rolling his eyes, to Natasha' giggles, "Including the guy who printed our business cards."

"Verily," said Thor, gravely, "In like wise, our guests knew not how to call us, naming us St. Avengers in its stead."

"And even my ego couldn't handle that," said Tony, laughing, "So I shortened it to Avengers."

Plus, the first beach house they had renovated had been swept into the sea two weeks later by a Pineapple Express storm, taking with it almost all of Tony's money. Sitting on the slopes, feeling sorry for himself, Tony had turned to the sky and yelled, probably over-dramatically, _you come after us and it's on_ you _. Maybe a storm will come and destroy every house we buy, maybe a fire will burn the rest of them, but if we can't protect them all, you can be damned well sure we'll avenge every single one of them._

Two days later, he hired Pepper, who not only got them dwelling, builder's risk, liability, and worker's comp insurance policies for a fraction of the cost of any one of them individually, but also magicked a settlement out of the owner of the beach for loss of the house. He may have been dating Natasha, but Pepper will always be Tony's favorite Avenger.

"'Twas a fitting kenning, I believe," said Thor in protest.

"Yeah, well you can go be a saint," said Tony, letting his eyes travel down the front of Natasha's blouse, "Not all of us are cut out for it."

 

The apartment suddenly seems too empty, the echoes of the past ringing too loudly. Tony looks down to find he's already dialed Thor, who's in London with his girlfriend. It's only 2 a.m. there--not too late to talk to an old friend, right? It sounds needy, even to his ears, so he sighs and disconnects, and suddenly remembering what was bothering him, texts Clint.

 

 Tony's in the middle of texting entire strings of emoji when an address comes through, somewhere in Malibu. He spins in his office chair in triumph, before leaping for the door, keys jingling in his pocket. His cell phone buzzes multiple times in succession, but he ignores it.

Los Angeles is much warmer than New York, but April nights are still chilly enough for a jacket. He drives with his top down anyway, yellow shades protecting his eyes from the wind. The house is a Mission Revival mansion with gorgeous bones on a huge plot of land, with an unobstructed view of Paradise Cove. He sits for a moment on the bonnet of his car, watching the last of dusk fade into the glittering golden horizon of LA at night. The asking price on Zillow is ridiculously low for the size and location, and he's sure Natasha can perform her cutthroat voodoo and slash the price further.

The only problem is, they need actual money on hand.

His phone screen is ridiculously bright after staring at the pitch-dark sea, lit up with twenty texts from Clint that he ignores, calling Bruce instead.

"Tony, I'm at dinner," says Bruce, sounding annoyed. Tony can hear soft jazz behind, the tinkle of a woman's laugh.

"Sugar plum, I'm hurt," says Tony, grinning, "I'm sure Betty can spare you for just a second."

"No more than one for you, Tony," calls Betty, muffled slightly.

"You're on speakerphone," explains Bruce, his voice warmer, "So is this about the asset Clint was talking about?"

Bruce and Betty both work for Armanino CPA & Consulting, coworkers before they were lovers, in a torrid office affair Betty keeps trying to scar Tony with. While the Avengers account may have been assigned to Bruce, Tony has consulted Betty enough times to not worry about confidentiality.

"Yeah, she's a real classy lady," says Tony, "And daddy wants."

"Well, daddy's going to have to resolve a cash flow problem first," says Bruce, "Your money market's tied up in bonds right now, and I can't extend your credit line when you haven't paid off the last loan yet."

"But I want it," whines Tony, "C'mon, don't we have any stock options we can sell?"

"Nope. We sold off most of them before the bust last quarter, remember?"

"Well, that's exactly why we're having a problem this quarter," grumbles Tony, "All the hipsters are hoarding their cash in case their rabbit-food start-up goes under, instead of buying shiny new houses."

"Sorry," says Betty, not sounding sorry at all, "I have a cousin who'd buy, if you'd stop putting Holtkotter ceiling lights in your houses."

"Heathen," gasps Tony, "How do you not appreciate modern elegance?"

"Text me when you're available, and we'll set up a meeting about options, okay?" says Bruce, over Betty's faint, "You mispronounced boxy and weird!" in the background.

"What do accountants know anyway," grumbles Tony to the standard iPhone disconnect sound effect.

The phone rings before he can return it to his pocket, lighting up with Thor's grinning mug, posing next to a pitcher of beer larger than his head.

"Point Break," says Tony, feeling his bad mood dissolve, "What's up in the Big Smoke?"

"It goes well," says Thor, around a yawn, "How goes it with you, friend?"

"Peachy," says Tony, "Actually, no. Green Arrow picked up a tiny purple mini-me who's starting to bond with Agent XXX, which is _no bueno_ all around, especially since Major Amasova herself caught a chronic case of majorly pissed off."

"I understand not a word of which you speak," laughs Thor, "Do Clinton and Natalia not treat you well?"

"Sure, if by well, you mean like absolute dick," grumbles Tony, unable to bring himself to say, _Come home, there's a giant you-sized hole in our team._

"I have indeed tried the dick you speak of," says Thor gravely, "Spotted even. It is delicious. Perhaps you should try some?"

Tony, who has fallen for Thor's hapless foreigner act too many times, finally catches on and bursts out in startled laughter, loud enough to startle a passing jogger.

"I am glad that you are well, friend," says Thor, chuckling himself, "Hark, there is a boon I wish of you."

"Your wish is my command," says Tony, magnanimously, "Unless, of course, it's to let you two lovebirds shack up in my apartment, in which case, oh _hell no_. There are no walls thick enough for that nonsense, capisce?"

"Capisco," says Thor, "No, it is my brother."

Tony is quiet, chewing his lip. Thor rarely speaks of his brother when sober, but he's heard too many of Thor's tearfully drunken self-incriminating soliloquys to have a good opinion of Loki. According to Thor, his brother is as smart as he is willful, but from what Tony's heard, he just thinks Loki's a man who had his first taste of freedom in college and spiraled out of control, ending up in an endless carousel of dead-end jobs, too proud to ask his parents for a second chance. Tony hopes Thor isn't going to ask the Avengers to hire Loki.

"He has a new employer, hopefully one who will treat him with the respect he deserves," says Thor, with a touch of pride, "But the lending sector requires much from its employees, especially one who has little knowledge of the field."

Tony blinks in surprise. "You want us to take out a loan through him."

"He needs but a few cases to find his feet. Loki has always been a quick learner," assures Thor, "He will not disappoint."

"Sure, text me his digits. Just buy me a drink the next time you're in town."

The hood of his car is cold by now, and Tony climbs into his Lotus Elise, shivering. He wants a drink to fortify himself for the next call, but he still needs to drive the car back. Ah, the tragedies of adulthood.

"How did you get this number?" snarls a lightly accented voice on the other end of the phone, after the sixth ring. Tony blinks. Did he call the wrong line?

"Is this Loki?" says Tony, "I'm Tony Stark, a friend of Thor's. I was told you could extend to me a loan."

"Oh," says the voice, suddenly becoming far too well-oiled, "Yes, of course. Where are my manners?"

"No problem," says Tony, squashing his heebie-jeebies, "Hey, look, so, I have a great credit score--Thor can vouch for me--how much credit do you think you can loan me?"

"The sky's the limit," purrs Loki, "How much do you need?"

"Three and a half mil," says Tony, doing the math in his head, "No, let's make it four, to be safe."

"Done," says Loki, "I just need you to come in and sign a few documents."

"That's it?" says Tony, incredulous, "You don't need to do any background checks? Make any calls to credit agencies?"

"As you have said, Thor has vouched for you," Loki assures him, "And besides, what's a favor for a friend?"

"What indeed," says Tony, palm already itching, "Okay, tell me the address."

 

"Explain it to me again," says Natasha, tapping her foot, arms crossed in front of impressive cleavage Tony's no longer supposed to look at, nope.

"What's there to explain?" says Tony, propping both feet on the coffee table, glad he kept his shades on, hiding his eyes, "I asked for a loan. I got a loan."

"In cash. Overnight," she says. It's not a question. Behind her, Clint is making himself as small as possible behind Tony's Mac monitor. His shoulders make it impossible for him to disappear completely.

"I was persuasive," Tony says, with a charming smile.

Her returning smile could freeze a polar bear. "I'm sure you were. In fact, I'm sure you wouldn't do anything to jeopardize our ability to borrow in the--"

"It was a personal loan," snaps Tony, "Okay? It has nothing to do with the Avengers. I borrowed it under Tony Stark's name, with Tony Stark's social security number, and I signed Tony Stark's own personal John Hancock on the loan agreement."

Natasha eyelids flicker, her equivalence of slack-jawed surprise. Tony feels the burn of dark satisfaction.

"Are you sure it wasn't the mafia?" says Clint, apparently having lost his self-preservation instincts. Tony sighs.

"Look, I got the money, and there's a pretty little house that needs a little TLC, so I just need you, Ms. Red October, to go work your secret Soviet ways on the agents selling our house, okay?"

Natasha rolls her eyes, huffing something probably unflattering in Russian, and storms out the door, slamming it. The pictures on the wall rattle.

 

The sale goes through for a ridiculously low $2.5 mil, the sellers practically in tears, leaving them with enough budget for Clint to replace the entire wiring system for something that actually make sense, and for Tony to rip out the drop ceiling in the huge ballroom, exposing the soaring vaulted ceiling beams. They complement the Spanish bones with white stucco, a slate-tiled pavilion, and heavy, solid Gustav Stickley casegoods, add a little contrast with airy Paul McCobb pieces and minimalistic Achille Castiglioni lamps. On the wall go Rothko-influenced oil paintings by a young Spanish artist, soft patches of color like the sun over the sea, in every weather, in every light.

The whole effect is elegant, expensive...bland. Exactly calculated to sell. It's their last chance, all of the loan money poured into the house, and Tony can't afford to add any personal touches.

"See? You can be tasteful," says Natasha, cheerfully patting him on the shoulder before click-click-clicking out the door, to pick up their first unsuspecting victim.

Clint, exhausted, covered in a gummy layer of powdered grout and sweat, says, "Wanna get shit-faced?"

He pulls out a bottle of Stolichnaya out of seemingly nowhere.

"Hand it over," says Tony, taking a swig of vodka, warm and disgusting, perfect for his mood at the moment. He can already start feeling the vodka warm his fingers and toes. He takes another long drag to be sure, then slides the bottle across the floor to Clint.

The room grows uglier the drunker he gets, and he tells Clint so.

"Yeah, boss," slurs Clint, "It'd take a pod person to buy this house. Think the buyers are gonna be pod people?"

"Stepford couples," agrees Tony, "Soulless."

"Nat likes it though," Clint points it out.

They mull it over in silence. Natasha would kick both their asses if she heard them calling her soulless, and her hearing distance is calculated in miles.

"You know what this place needs?" says Tony, a little too loudly, "A little personality."

Clint sits up, wobbling, eyes bright. "Yeah! You know what, I got just the thing."

They get into Clint's trunk, both too drunk to figure out the bundle of keys on his key ring and dropping it multiple times, giggling all the while, and pull out a framed portrait.

"Why do you have a portrait of," Tony squints, "Captain America in your trunk?"

"I stole it out of your apartment," says Clint, "Captain America's pretty cool."

"You're fired," says Tony, hugging the portrait to his chest, "For stealing."

"Okay," says Clint mournfully. Tony frowns.

"But I guess I can hire you again."

Clint tackle-hugs Tony, and they both stagger. "Best boss ever."

"Yeah, yeah," Tony says awkwardly, walking them both towards the house, "C'mon, you gotta help me hang this thing."

 

"Uh, you see, the symbolism, and uh, the blue in his...eyes," explains Tony half an hour later, wide-eyed with terror, to Mrs. Fury, "It really pulls the room together."

Mr. Fury squints suspiciously at Tony with his non-eyepatch-covered eye, but Tony figures he can only see half of Tony's bullshit, so that's okay. It's Natasha that's terrifying, lightning practically cracking above her perfectly coiffed head. He wonders if she's going to crack a tooth, the way she's clenching her jaw.

Mrs. Fury is oblivious to all of this, running her hands over the sleek mid-century modern chairs of the dining room. "Yes, the painting really adds that touch of life to the room."

She lean against Mr. Fury's arm, tiny and delicate next to his huge, looming pirate form. "Seven bedrooms, right next to the beach, close to Wildwood School--I really feel like we could raise a family here," she sighs, "Don't you think, honey?"

"Sure, babe," says Mr. Fury, which still sounds like a threat to Tony's ears, but Mrs. Fury just snuggles closer.

Natasha dimples and says, "Well, if you'll follow me to the living room, Mr. Fury, Mrs. Fury."

Mrs. Fury follows her eagerly, tugging Mr. Fury with her, saying, "Please, call me Monica."

Clint pops out of nowhere, now freshly showered and far too sober-looking, jerking two thumbs up at Tony, and chirping, "See, I knew you had it, bro."

Tony groans and rubs his dry, itchy eyes, full of the knowledge that his inevitable hangover will be brutal. "I am never drinking with you again."

 

Flush with cash, Natasha doesn't rip him a new one. Instead, she takes the $3 million in profit they make and buys a Crafsman bungalow in Kinney Heights and a post-modern box on stilts in San Pedro.

And a mountain of Captain America portraits, framed in IKEA black.

"Swan Lake, why do you hate me so much?" whines Tony, staggering under the weight of the art prints. Natasha just smirks.

The bungalow just needs some limonene and elbow grease for the tragically painted-gunked molding and pseudo-Mission furniture, but the San Pedro villa has a ridiculous eighteen-foot ceiling _with soffits_ that require Clint to practically climb the wall like a gecko to remove, their tallest ladder barely up to the job of getting Clint high enough.

It's practically inevitable, the way it happens: Clint is reaching way out to the side with his crowbar to rip out more drywall, when an entire section of sheeting, rotten through with water damage, gives way under his hand, taking Clint with it. Tony reaches for him, time slowing down to stop-motion pauses, but Clint plummets just out of reach of his hands, shirt barely brushing his fingertips.

Clint lies in a heap on the ground, leg at an impossible angle, too quiet and still.

It's Natasha who has the presence of mind to call an ambulance, voice brisk and perfectly professional, binding Clint's leg following the operator's instructions, up until she hangs up.

She bursts into tears as soon as the call disconnects.

Tony can do nothing except hold her, rocking both of them from side to side, hands trembling too much to do more than pat her back awkwardly, mumbling soothing nonsense for the benefit of both of them.

He nudges her gently into the ambulance when the EMS team arrives, brusque and efficient, barely time for a hug goodbye before the doors slam shut and the ambulance zips away, sirens wailing. He watches until it turns the next corner, disappearing.

He can't stand being in the building anymore, with the silence and the blood-specked gypsum. Taking the stack of portraits, he drives up to the four houses still standing empty, furniture covered in tarp until their debut, taking down the Hung Tien Yu acrylics, the Jean Pierre Derian oils, the ghostly Yelena Popova watercolors. In their places he hangs up the Captain America pop-art prints, in cheery primary colors, framed in white and black.

They fit. They fit in every room he places them in, in every house.

Tony can't help it. He barks out short punches of laughter, sliding down the wall of the Brentwood ranch house, until he can do nothing but giggle hysterically at the perfectly reproduced prints, stamped with color by cold unhuman lithography presses, while around him lay a heap of discarded paintings, strokes of pigment, of artistic expression.

 

It turns out to be nothing more than a concussion and a spiral fracture all the way up Clint's leg bones.

"Nothing more than?" yelps Clint, "The doctors said it'll take eight months to heal."

"We thought you were dead, khuy," says Natasha fondly, poking him in the head, "A fracture is nothing."

"Ow, head injury here," says Clint, shying from her finger, "And aww, shucks, I didn't know you liked it so much."

Natasha rolls her eyes, but doesn't poke him again.

Pepper assures them that she'll get Clint the max workman's comp payout, and he takes full advantage of the doctor's orders to rest, hibernating in his Eagle Rock condo, recommending to them a replacement, apparently a friend of a friend, who arrives the next Monday.

"Hi, Steve Grant," he says. Tony can barely glance away from the broad expanse of shoulders practically bursting out of the man's white t-shirt, miles of golden muscle extending from the sleeves ending in a hand that, oh, he's supposed to shake.

Tony has no idea what he says in response, but judging from Natasha's eyeroll, it probably wasn't impressive. Girl's going to sprain a ligament, one of these days.

 

As it turns out, Steve is not only a great workman, ripping out the ridiculous soffit in half the time it would have taken Clint, single-handedly tearing out the leaking bathroom that had caused the problem in the first place, he's also _interested in art_.

"Oh yeah, sure," Steve says, over his ham-and-cheese sandwich, the first in a stack, "I went to art school."

Tony buries his totally manly whimper by stuffing a handful of blueberries in his mouth. He swallows. "What medium?"

"Mostly charcoals. I dabbled in watercolor and acrylics, but I was never good at it, you know?" The skin between his eyebrows wrinkles adorably.

"No oils?"

"No patience for it," Steve says, cheeks pink, picking up his second sandwich, "But architecture, that's pretty keen. Why'd you go into that?"

"I actually started out in engineering," Tony confesses, "I've always liked creating things, building the world up instead of tearing it down, and I thought engineering was the way to go. But then a buddy of mine dragged me into a lecture about Mies van der Rohe. The math--god, it was like the man was creating perfect fractal sculptures that just happened to look like buildings."

Steve nodded enthusiastically. "I never really understood the hoo-ha about modern architecture until I saw his buildings, you know? It's like he stripped away everything except the essence of modernity."

"And once you know what it is, you start seeing that essence everywhere," says Tony, grinning, to Steve's bobbing agreement. "Art, objects, buildings, _people_."

"And I _can't stop seeing it_ ," says Steve, eyes wide with aggravation, so very blue, "It's like...is everything nowadays designed by the Eames? Aren't there any other designers out there?"

Tony laughs so hard he nearly snorts blueberry juice out his nose.

 

The Captain America posters are magic. First, the Los Feliz Spanish Revival goes for a thousand more than the listed price, then the Encino Tudor-wannabe is snatched up a week later after languishing for half a year. The paint hasn't even dried on the San Pedro villa when Natasha snatches up three foreclosed mansions on Hollywood Hill with their new cash.

"Slave driver," he accuses her.

"Gotta make hay while the sun shines," says Steve cheerfully as he brushes past them. Natasha and Tony both pause to watch his ass as he goes.

"You heard the man," says Natasha, out of the corner of her mouth, smiling with all her teeth.

Tony hates foreclosed houses--the newly minted starlets, eager to show the universe up, pour their newfound cash into flaunting their individuality in the exact same way, remodeling houses to look like the same West Elm photo shoot, stretching someone else's features onto completely different bones, the architectural equivalent of too much plastic surgery on a face that was fine to being with. When the starlets fade into obscurity, as ninety percent of them do, the house gets put up for auction, all of their gaudy desperation hanging out for the world to see, like aging has-beens trotted out for Us Weekly to mock. Tony always starts with a week of ripping everything down to the bare bones before he can even see the building's true face, its potential. What savings they gain in winning dirt-cheap bids gets eaten back up by that first step, crucial but time-consuming and expensive.

He ends up decking the houses in the Hollywood Regency style that always does well on the market, seemingly embodying the ethos of cinema itself--all glamorous mirrored surfaces and plush diamond tuft, bold contrasts and gilt edges, softening any defects the house might have, and playing up all its strengths. He has Steve carry in pot after pot of lush butterfly palms and white orchids before the clients arrive, along with floral arrangements sourced from his favorite florist Janet, sprinkled like powder and rouge over the room.

Steve collapses in a chair next to Tony after they finish setting everything up, heat radiating off of him, his arm close enough to accidentally brush against. Tony keeps very still.

"I've put the finishing touches in," says Natasha, "And the customer just texted me that she's five minutes out. Steve, would you like to see how we make a sale?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'd love to." says Steve, sitting bolt upright in his chair. Tony shivers at the loss of body heat.

Lady Gaga redux strides in just then, flicking her green hair over her shoulder.

"Abigail," says Natasha, fluttering over to her, "So glad you made it. How was the drive?"

They trail after the duo, Natasha expertly spinning stories about every feature they stop at. Tony has tuned out the song and dance by this point, far more interested in watching Steve, who looks like he's itching for a pencil and pad.

"Fascinating," says Abigail in a flat deadpan, "Can you tell me about the art choices?"

"All of our art and furnishings were curated by our award-winning interior designer, Mr. Anthony Stark," says Natasha, and Abigail turns to him expectantly, her mirrored green shades reflecting his bored face perfectly.

Tony's an expert at the spiel by now. "Of course. If you'll notice, all of the artwork is of Captain America. Notice how the strong masculine lines of his jaws sets off the sleek feminine curves of the Barcelona chair, how the exact shade of his clear, azure eyes is reflected in the glass surface of the Noguchi coffee table. In fact, the imagery of American exceptionalism is reflected in all the pieces of this home, every one of them American-made, tied together by this singular icon."

"It's very Americana, isn't it?" says Abigail.

"Each piece of artwork was carefully selected to best suit this home," he tells her, with his best serious-artist face.

Through the mirrored shades, he can see Steve's bemused face, his torso twisting as he shifts slightly from foot to foot. Did Tony do something wrong? Was he overselling it? It was hard to tell, with Abigail's perfectly blank face.

"Thank you, Mr. Stark," says Abigail, "In fact, yes, I think this is the house for me. Are there any other offers?"

"Oh yes, plenty," says Natasha, chuckling, "But we have _such_ a connection, Abigail, so I just had to hold off all the others until you've had a chance to see the house."

"Hmm, how much did you say the offers are?"

Steve tugs gently at Tony's elbow, so he follows him to the kitchen, where the women are nothing more than distant murmurs.

"Did you really pick m-the Captain America's posters just for this house?" Steve asks, adorably pink

"Naw, of course not," says Tony, slouching against the granite kitchen island. "We found out that they really sell houses, for some reason. Doesn't hurt that the man's not hard on the eyes at all. Why?"

"What? No reason," says Steve, quickly, hunching into himself.

"Why, I didn't know you were a Cap fan," says Tony, grinning, "Hey, tell you what, I've got a stack of posters in my car--"

"I just--I don't think he should be used as a marketing tool," Steve bites out, shoulders bunching even more, "He's a real person too."

Tony frowns, taken aback. "Look, I don't think he'd care. Man's been dead for, what, seventy years?"

Steve opens his mouth to retort, but then Natasha and the Green Lady appear in the doorway, practically patting each other's backs.

"Sorry, I gotta get some air. Ma'ams," says Steve, nodding to them as he rushes out of the kitchen.

 

Things are awkward after that. Every time Tony enters a room, Steve finds an excuse to leave. There are no more talks about artists and architects, no more discussions about the modern era and all its quirks. Tony ends up having to eat lunch alone, dangling his feet off the second-floor balcony facing the Hollywood sign, the wind cold against his bare arms. Tony can admire Steve's professionalism, at least. In fact, without the constant distraction, Steve is both faster and neater in his work. The sheetrock is mirror smooth, the tiles laid laser-straight. When Tony can't reach the top foot of wall to paint, Steve helps, but only after Tony leaves the room, paint can and roller left behind. Whatever, it's just work.

After a week, Tony caves, enlisting Natasha's help with a bribe of new ridiculously-sounding shoes.

She simply lays out a plate of deep-fried potato balls in the foyer, where the scent will carry throughout the house, fresh from Bar Food, about the extent of Natasha's willingness to cook. The stack of Art Deco books she'd also prepared as bait lay forgotten on the entryway console when Tony walks into the room, where Steve is stuffing his face, Natasha looking faintly amused.

"Oh wow, these are swell," gushes Steve, mouth full, "You've gotta give me the recipe."

"Who the hell says swell anymore?" says Tony, which, wow, was totally not what he meant to say at all. Steve freezes, clearly torn between fleeing and gorging on more of the delicious mouthfuls of hot fat and starch.

"I won't bite," says Tony, placatingly, "Well, unless you want me to, in which case, sure I'll be absolutely happy to accommodate, believe me, but other than in that totally hypothetical situation, you are in a completely bite-free zone."

"Is everything a joke to you?" says Steve, jaws clenched.

Stung, Tony retorts, "I dunno, do you want it to be?"

Steve straightens up, brows knit, and wow, he'd never noticed how imposing the man can be. Tony bristles, a knee-jerk response to too many schoolyard bullies trying to use their weight to end arguments, instead of their words.

"Tony, I know you think you're real sharp--"

"Think? I know I'm a genius--"

"And you're too cool for the rest of us schmucks--" continues Steve over him.

"Where the hell is this even com--ow, why are you kicking _me_ , Baba Yaga?"

Steve startles mid-sentence, staring at Natasha like he'd forgotten she was even there. Natasha has the small, self-satisfied smile that means Tony's life is about to be ruined.

"Tony," she says serenely, "You were going to apologize to Steve for making the workplace environment uncomfortable."

Tony opens to retort, and ow, gets another jab of heels in his ankle. He swallows. "Okay, yeah, sorry for being unprofessional. Won't happen again."

"And Steve, you were going to promise to have a constructive conversation," says Natasha, still sugary sweet."

"Yeah, I can be professional too," says Steve, jaws clenched, "I accept your apology."

"Gentlemen, let's shake on it," says Natasha, "And Tony, I believe you were going to drive me to the Saks in Beverly Hills."

 

"I don't get what his problem is," Tony whines to Clint later, sketching Zaha Hadid-esque swirls on Clint's hip-to-ankle plaster cast, between the dicks scribbled by Clint's friends--or more likely, by Clint himself, trying to keep Clint's dog from chewing on his socks. Tony's, not the dog's.

"Let's face it, you want to bang that like a screen door in a hurricane," says Clint, cheerfully ignoring his soul-deep pain.

"Like you wouldn't? That man is like six feet of pure hotness."

"Nope," says Clint, "Hands-on research says that I am one hundred percent straight. Although I can admit you've got some good taste, from a purely aesthetic point of view."

"You only say that because you're banging Natasha," whines Tony.

"Excuse you, I am in a mutually satisfactory relationship with a strong, independent woman."

"You know what, you can buy your strong independent woman shoes yourself. Why am I still footing the bill?" Tony says, chucking the Sharpie at Clint's head, who snatches it out of the air without looking away.

Clint sing-songs, "Because you don't pay me enough to afford her shoes. And because you need an excuse not to be in the same room as your man-crush."

"Why does that sound so fourth-grade when you say it, Dr. Phil?"

"Because it is?" Clint squints at Tony, "Look, I don't hang much with Shang-Chi's artsier friends, but I'm pretty sure they all bat for the other team at least some of the time."

"Oh, well, if you're _pretty_ sure," grumbles Tony, planting his face in his hands, "Anyway, it's not like he doesn't hate me now."

Clint folds in half to pat him on the shoulder, foot still in Tony's lap, annoyingly flexible. Lucky the dog, not to be outdone, licks his elbow.

"Hey, wanna see what mixing beer with my pain meds does?"

 

The last two Hollywood mansions are flipped in near silence. Steve no longer avoids Tony, or at least not overtly, but their conversation is limited to the bare minimum. Pass the screwdriver. Do we really need molding there? Which blinds work better with this curtain?

"It's like watching a married couple fight," Tony hears Pepper whispering to Natasha, while overseeing practical completion, "Have they started talking _at_ you _about_ the other parent yet?"

"Ha," says Natasha, still initialing all the little lines, "Let's just hope we don't get split up in the divorce."

 

Tony's in a low enough mood that he wheedles Betty into lending him Bruce for the night.

"I feel like I'm checking out a library book," says Tony to Bruce's apartment intercom. Bruce buzzes him up.

"Don't forget to return me on time," says Bruce mildly, when Tony lets himself in, pecking Betty on the cheek, "I hear the late fees are brutal."

Tony gives Betty a cheeky salute, and bullies Bruce into his little red Lotus.

"Seriously, stop telling me you have a temper," says Tony, still poking at Bruce even after they've buckled themselves in, "You are the mellowest person I have ever met. What's your secret--giant bowls of medical weed?"

"Bikrim yoga. You should try it," says Bruce, not at all rising to the bait, and then to Tony's incredulous look, "No, seriously, it helps."

"Hot moms in yoga pants?"

Bruce hums speculatively. "I hear jogging around Santa Monica pier's good for that."

"Oh hell no," says Tony, squealing around a grandma crawling down the Santa Ana freeway, "If I wanted to feel like a pedophile, I could just watch Girl Meets World."

"You watch the Disney channel?" Bruce says.

Tony realizes his mistake a split second too late and yelps, "Not the point!

"The point is it's football season, and we're going down to a bar to get drunk and discuss football like adult men."

"Okay. If the Raiders and the Rams both move here, which team would you root for?" muses Bruce.

Tony holds out a fist for Bruce to bump, which he does with a brief brush of knuckles. "See, that's what I'm talking about."

The Little Bar is buzzing by the time they pull out front, but George, Tony's favorite server, whisks them into a booth a comfortable distance from one of the three large-screen TVs and deposits two takeout menus from Chapa Grill in front of them. The place is dark and cozy, scarred oak wainscoting buttressing against tin wall and ceiling tiles, patrons seated at refurbished booths, and on pitted barstools around grungy barrels. Tony's not sure if the bar even has a kitchen of its own--he's never seen anyone order anything not off a takeout menu.

"Thanks, Galaga Guy," says Tony, winking at the waiter.

"Why do you call him that?" says Bruce.

"Here, you gotta try their chicken shawarma," says Tony, pointing at the menu, "Who? Galaga Guy? He fixed the Galaga machine the first time I came here. Kicked it until it rebooted."

"They have an actual Galaga arcade?" squeaks Bruce, craning his head around.

"And Mrs. Pacman. C'mon I'll show you."

Tony may be the undefeated king of Galaga, but he discovers that Bruce is no slouch. By the end of the night, they're laughing and loose-limbed, from both the alcohol and the videogames, the Bruins thrashing the Cavaliers too soundly to be an interesting game after all, all thoughts of Steve forgotten, and Tony has his arm slung around Bruce's neck, staggering down La Brea together, trying to catch a cab. Tony turns at the same time Bruce lurches to the side, banging their noses together, knocking Tony into the sidewalk and Bruce into a parking meter. Tony howls with helpless laughter at the sight of Bruce trying to claw himself upright, a moue of indignation on his face, a horde of tourists crossing the street to avoid the two manic drunks. He turns his head, wiping his eyes--and a sudden chill washes over him.

Steve's standing on the sidewalk, gaping at Tony, a slim brunette in a little purple number on his arm. And god, Tony can't stop staring. Steve's in a tight black shirt, stretched across his broad chest and beautiful shoulders, miles of long legs in artfully ripped jeans, his hair carefully tousled to make it look effortless, almost as delicious as his hair after he runs fingers through it trying to calculate square footage in his head. Tony's fingers itch with the need to run his hair through that hair, comb out all the gel, see it splayed against his sheets. Steve takes a step towards Tony, at the same time Bruce shouts Tony's name. Tony's head turns of its own accord--Bruce has somehow managed to hail them a cab, waving to Tony from the back seat. Tony clambers to his feet and staggers into the taxi after Bruce, the easier of two choices.

"Sleep at our place," says Bruce, "Our guest room's nicer."

"Brag, brag, brag," mutters Tony into his shoulder, already drifting off to sleep.

The next morning, Steve is skittish again. Tony, mood already black due to his hangover, keeps his mouth shut, not knowing what awful things will spill out if he lets loose, until Steve opens his mouth and says, "Look, about last night--"

"What about it?" says Tony, anger flaring along with his insecurity, afraid that Steve might shun him, defensive to protect himself against further hurt, "What, I can't have a night out with a friend?"

"What? That's not it at all," says Steve, jaw clenching, back ramrod straight, looking uncannily like the poster behind him.

"Oh yeah, keep posing like that," snaps Tony, "Why don't you put on Captain America's suit while you're at it? Then you'll look exactly like him."

Steve suddenly looks like all the air has been punched out of him, and Tony feels a sudden rush of inexplicable guilt. There's a moment of silence, during which Tony picks at the previous owner's ragged caulking. Steve opens his mouth, but Tony can't stand this conversation anymore.

"How was your date?" says Tony, quickly, before Steve can speak.

"Kate's a friend," Steve blurts in surprise, not an answer at all.

"Great," says Tony, and tears off a strip of silicone, "That's probably Luke at the door. I should go get that."

 

"Will that be all, Mr. Stark?" says Pepper, tapping a pen against her binder.

They're all piled into her Silver Lake office, Tony sandwiched between the twin space heaters, Clint and Steve, Natasha practically in Clint's lap.

"Yes, that will be--ow," says Tony, jerking out of his mental slideshow of city skylines by Clint's heavy boot landing heavily on his foot.

"Just passing on the message," says Clint, shrugging not at all apologetically. On the other side of him, Natasha shoots Tony a brief glare.

"What Tony means to say is, there's one other thing," she says to Pepper, who turns to Tony expectantly. When he just blinks at her for a few moments, Natasha sighs and says, "He took out a loan to finance us this year. Unfortunately, it was some kind of shady backlot deal. Here,"

And she pulls out his credit contract that he could have sworn was in his safe.

"Hey, wasn't that in my safe?" says Tony.

"Not my fault if you haven't changed the combination," says Natasha, smiling shark-like, handing over the documents.

"I _know_ I changed the combination since we broke up," says Tony, "That was ages ago."

"Changing the order of the digits doesn't count," deadpans Natasha, quirking an eyebrow.

"Wait, you two stepped out?" says Steve.

"You didn't know?" says Clint, and Steve shakes his mutely in response. "I thought everyone knew they dated. Seriously, raise your hand if you knew."

Everyone else is in the middle of raising their hands when Steve says, unreasonably unset, "Tony, how many of your coworkers have you _not_ stepped out with?" and they all freeze with their hands halfway in the air.

Tony tries, "All of them except one?"

"What do you call Bruce?"

"We're not dating. He's _married_ for chrissake."

"Fine, so we're not calling it stepping out. How many coworkers have you, what's the term, not-dated?"

"Why do you even--"

"Hey, where's the rest of the document?"

Both Steve and Tony freeze. Pepper waits, tapping her pen against the contract.

"What rest?" says Tony, mystified, "That's all I signed."

"Yeah, no," says Pepper, flipping the document closed, "The contract references supplementary clauses that aren't stated anywhere here. As it stands, I don't even know if the contract is legal."

"So what do you suggest we do?" says Natasha.

"You guys do realize I don't have a license yet, right?" says Pepper, "You'd have to go to my mentor for legal guidance. What did the loan officer tell you?"

Tony says, "Well, see, we didn't say much. He told me the standard zero percent APR for eighteen months, zero percent balance transfer, zero annual fee, etc. etc."

"But that's not what the contract says--"

"Right, it says in reference to article 14, section 17, clause, um, 4," says Tony, scratching his head, ignoring Steve's incredulous stare, still a little pissed, "Which says zero percent interest."

"So why didn't he leave the relevant supplements with you?" says Pepper, as Tony's stomach drops. He wracks his memory, the conversation they had. It had made so much sense at the time, but dissolves like fog the more he pokes at it.

"It was a handshake deal," he says, but it sounds empty even to his own ears.

He calls Loki after the meeting, fully expecting to be rebuffed, or simply ignored. Luckily, Loki agrees to his request to meet, sounding cheerful, even.

The next day, running half an hour late, with the check to return all $4 mil already signed and in his wallet, Tony's pulling into the guest parking spot of Loki's Van Nuys office, when someone raps on his window. The underground parking garage is dark, and he can't see who is under the blue baseball cap.

He rolls down the windows. "Can I help--"

The world flares in pain, and then goes dark.

 

He comes to in what looks like the interior of a cinder block, his skull throbbing, ready to split. He's tied to a chair with enough rope to make the next World's Largest Ball of Twine, but all least he still has all his clothes, and--he wiggles them, all his fingers and toes, and oh hey, is that a phone in his pocket or is he just happy to--never mind, that joke was going nowhere fast.

Wow, is he loopy.

"Looks like he's up," growls a Gran Torino extra. Two other hooded figures stir from their leans against the wall, one huge and still, the other small and twitchy.

"Hey, I loved you in Ocean's Eleven," says Tony to the guy on the right.

He deserves the kick to the kneecap. A flurry of kicks and punches, half of them aimed at his already sore head rain down on him, before they stop, the thugs heaving in exertion. Under the ropes, Tony manages to turn on his iPhone unseen and hold his thumb over what he hopes is the emergency call icon on his lock screen. The phone buzzes once, which he decides to take as a good sign.

"Look, if you guys want money, I'm as poor as shit," he says, wincing as his voice cracks in the middle.

They chuckle, circling him. Gran Torino pulls a very familiar-looking check out of his pocket, "Well, you sure are now, 'mano, after paying us for services rendered."

"What services?" says Tony, despite himself.

"Collection and delivery," says Gran Torino, "We collect your contract, and we deliver it to the boss."

God, these goons have been in his apartment. He swallowed down his reflexive anger, knowing that time is of the essence. Every hour he is missing lowers the chance that he will be found, alive. Now he just had to find out where they are, and hope whomever was on the other end of the phone call can get to him in time.

"Yeah? What's your boss's name again?"

"Yeah, like we're gonna tell you," says Gran Torino, glaring at the other two, and Ocean's Eleven closes his mouth hurriedly. "You think we're stupid, puto?"

"Oh, you're smart all right," says Tony, "In fact, I can't figure out how you got me here. How'd you know where to find me?"

"Easy," says Ocean's Eleven excitedly, "The boss man gave us your plate numbers, and where you parked last time, so it was real easy to lie in wait until you came, only the boss man was pissed 'cuz you was late to your appoint."

"I had an appointment with your boss?" says Tony, feigning confusion, "You must be mistaken--my appointment was with my loan officer Loki Laufeyson."

Ocean's Eleven giggles to Gran Torino, "I thought he was supposed to be smart."

"Shut your puto mouth," says Gran Torino evenly, "Now, I'm going to say this one nicely, so listen up good. Where is the contract?"

Tony smiles. "I'm afraid I haven't drawn up any contracts with you gentlemen."

Gran Torino motions to the third man, whom Tony's been nicknaming The Rock in his head, who picks up an aluminum bat leaning against the wall, twirling it. The Rock swings the bat against Tony's leg and the pain explodes down to his toes, up to his scalp, like ice shards dipped in habaneros. Tony yells, thrashing, trying to squirm away from the pain.

"Every time you don't answer, you get to deal with my associate," says Gran Torino, "Now. Where's the contract?"

Tony glares at him through his tears. He's faced down bullies that were worse. No one likes a smart-mouthed brat, not even at M.I.T., among other smart-mouths.

"Oh, he thinks he's real tough," laughs Ocean's Eleven, "Yeah, we're taking off the kiddie gloves now."

The door flies off its hinges inwards, and a figure in all black throws a...is that shield? Tony is fully convinced that he is hallucinating the whole episode--a masked man throwing a shield, bouncing off the concrete walls and taking out all three thugs in a series of ricochets, before bouncing again off the far wall and flying back to its owner, like a boomerang. The baklava-wearing ninja catches it easily, snapping it into a harness strapped to his back.

"Um, hi," says Tony, because apparently he now talks to his hallucinations, "How'd you know where to find me?"

"Uh, well, did you know you called m-your pal Steve?" says the hallucination, sawing away at the ropes, "And did you know your phone can be traced from your computer? And did you know your other pal Natasha is really good at breaking into abandoned buildings?"

"I always knew she was a KGB spy," says Tony, nodding to himself.

"Um, I don't think she was old enough to be KGB before they dissolved," says the hallucination, but Tony, wiggling loose of the ropes, grabs at the baklava, saying, "Hey, lemme see your face."

The hallucination makes a hilarious squawking noise, yanking his head back, which twists the mask right off, revealing a very familiar face.

"Steve!" says Tony delightedly, "Wow, am I glad to see you."

Steve narrows his eyes at Tony. "Really? I thought you hated me."

"I'll show _you_ how much I hate you," says Tony, and tries to haul Steve in for a kiss, and ends up doing an awkward one-arm pull up, mashing their lips together. Steve's lips are slightly chapped, and his hair is on end, but that's okay, because he been hallucinating Steve as Captain America, and that just makes it feel slightly less absurd. He suspects the entire episode will still bill as top spot in his spank bank for _months_ anyway, if not for the rest of his life.

Steve gasps, and Tony takes advantage of his parted lips to tease the tip of his tongue against Steve's bottom lip. Steve's knees wobble in a way that's very flattering to Tony's ego, and he presses Tony right back into the chair, solid all against his front. Tony, one hand still fisted in the back of Steve's shirt, reaches up to tangle in his hair, licking further into Steve's mouth at the same time.

Steve opens up for him, soft and pliant, for only a few moments before he tangles tongues with Tony, forcing it back into Tony's mouth, hands insistently pawing at Tony's chest, making Tony moan, hand clutching at Steve's hair, melting into the chair. Steve groans at the tug, pressing closer until he's practically straddling Tony's lap, jarring--

OW. Tony hisses and jerks, his entire leg flaring in agony. He's suddenly aware of the ache of his other kneecap, the bruises blossoming against his ribs, on his skull. Steve, sways a little forward, eyes still close, before blinking them confusedly open. He's rosy-cheeked, mouth swollen and red, eyes dark, the bright light behind his head creating a nimbus of golden light. Tony's spirit is so very willing, but his body just isn't going to cash that check.

Steve's eyes snap into focus, running them professionally, clinically, over his sides, barking, "You're hurt."

"Just my leg," says Tony, indicating with his head. The pain has subsided to twinges in time with his rapid heartbeat, but he still doesn't want to touch it.

"Okay, lie still," says Steve, his tone all business.

He reaches down and snaps the box stretchers supporting the chair legs like they're toothpicks, laying them on both sides of Tony's bad leg, cutting a length of rope, binding the makeshift splint to his leg. "Can you stand?"

Tony tries, clutching Steve, but the entire world slides sideways, and he ends up sagging against Steve, shaking and sweating, his arm slung around Steve's neck, his hip pressed to Steve's by one of Steve's huge hands.

"Good," says Steve, "Now, I need you to take a step."

Tony grits his teeth, pain dancing in white stars across his vision, and hops a step forward, the impact sending searing pain down his leg, past his gritted teeth.

He swallows, sweat dripping off his eyebrows into his eyes, and says, "I think I deserve a kiss for that."

Steve snorts, but obliges, dropping a sugar sweet kiss on his lips. Tony blinks in surprise, but the pain clears a little. He steels himself for the next step, and hops.

God, it's just as bad as the first step.

But then Steve presses his lips against Tony's again, making him gasp. Steve gives him a bright little grin, twisted up on one side, and Tony can feel his heart hammering in his chest, threatening to burst out of his chest.

It goes like on like that: a hop, a kiss, a hop, for a day, a year, an eternity, until Tony can't see, can't feel, floating in a haze of pain, feeling like his body is attached to someone else, anchored to his mind only by the next kiss, and the promise of the one after it.

There's a sudden bump of something under his hand, and he strokes it, fascinated by the smooth slide of paint, marred here and there by bubbles, a hollow square of partly rusted steel, until he realizes it's a door jamb he's leaning against. There are voices, far away, but it's too much work to concentrate on. That's okay. As hallucinations go, he'll still give this one a ten out of ten. Any hallucination with Steve in it deserves as much.

 

It turns out to be nothing more than deep muscle bruising and a concussion.

He gets a soft cast and some crutches, a bottle of little white pills and doctor's orders to stay off the leg for two weeks. Because this is his life, his employees tell him he's not allowed to come in for work.

"Hey look, we match," chirps Clint from Tony's sofa when he arrives home, propped up on crutches. Clint has graduated from the plaster cast to a horrifically purple soft cast, splayed all over Tony's coffee table. Because it's a Saturday and he's no one's boss at the moment, Tony flips him the bird, and then collapses slowly next to him. Steve, following behind him, helpfully lays an icepack wrapped in a towel on Tony's leg, and then a quick kiss on his lips. Tony's face flames.

"You might to get him an ice pack for his face too," says Clint drily. Tony scowls at him, flushing to his ears, embarrassed at being embarrassed, and Clint adds, far too innocently, "I just meant that the bruise on your cheek looks like it could probably use some ice."

"Blush mode: unlocked," says Natasha from the doorway, "Congrats, Steve, you've progressed to a Stark level beyond us all."

Sadly, Steve jerks upright, face red, but then Tony notices Natasha has two six-packs of Russian River Pliny the Elder, something he's only seen in wet dreams before. Clint notices at the same time, making grabby hands and an absolutely filthy noise. Tony can't blame him--the last time he bought a bottle of Pliny, the entire transaction resembled a drug deal, complete with the shifty-eyed liquor store employee leading him to a separate cooler in the back room, charging him an outrageous amount of money for a single bottle. He kept hovering around the store for weeks afterwards, hoping for a new delivery.

Thanks to Clint's endless supply of bottle-opening tricks, they each have a foaming bottle of ambrosia in their hands within seconds, even Steve I-Can't-Get-Drunk-No-Seriously Grant.

"Wow, this is actually pretty good," says Steve, surprised. The rest of them just nod, in a state of Zen, savoring their mouthfuls of foamy, hoppy gold.

"Did you rob a delivery truck?" Tony asks Natasha.

She smiles, Sphinx-like. "Ancient Slavic secret."

They take a sip in companionable silence. The TV is on, in the middle of a Rocky marathon. Steve glues himself to the screen, and Clint starts quoting all of Rocky Balboa's lines to an imaginary audience like he's Sylvester Stallone.

And then Natasha has to break the peace with, "Hey, go easy on the kid, okay?"

Tony stares at her in horror. "Wait, why are you giving _me_ the shovel talk?"

"Because Steve's already aware that if he breaks your heart, I'm pushing him off Point Dume at high tide."

Tony takes a long draw of beer.

"I don't know if I'm touched or horrified," he tells her finally.

"They'll never find the body," she assures him cheerfully.

 

Steve accidentally finds the rest of Tony's Captain America cache the first time they try to have sex. It's ridiculous, the way it happens. Tony has finally taken all of Steve's clothes off, and Steve is saying, "I think we're going to need--hnnn---more room for this to--ah! work," and Tony is nodding frantically, sucking marks on Steve's collarbone, yanking at the tab that will unfold the sofa into his bed, when Steve pitches in to help, and the resulting momentum flings everything out of the storage compartment behind the back cushions, Tony's secret Captain America paraphernalia scattering all over the floor.

Tony can feel his face heat, probably the same shade of crimson as Steve's.

"I can explain," says Tony.

"Let me guess, they sell homes?" says Steve, dryly.

"No, these are mine," says Tony, scooping them up as quickly as he can, "I used to have them laying around the apartment before we made this our office."

"What happened to the old office?" says Steve, kneeling to help him.

"We used to meet at Thor's house. But he sold it when he moved," Tony rolls his eyes, and says, "You know, boy meets girl on vacation, girl gets job in England, boy sells his house to join her."

"Well, I think that's sweet," says Steve, "So now everyone meets up at your apartment."

"Which is supposed to be temporary thing, until I have time to find a new office," says Tony, brandishing a Captain America nutcracker to prove his point, "And then I can go back to decorating my private home the way I like."

"Well, that explains why the sofa is always so lumpy," says Steve, "Why do you store it there though?"

Tony waves an arm to encompass his studio apartment, the shoe rack leaning against his TV console, his sofa bed butted up against the bookshelf that serves as a divider between his living room/office and his kitchenette, the artwork-smothered walls that barely muffle the sounds of the bustling 110 freeway just outside. Everything he makes, he puts into the company: investing in properties, people and what he needs to flash in front of the clients to build their confidence. His own home comes last, his savings nonexistent. "Do you see anywhere else I can store it?"

Steve chews his lip for a minute, and Tony can practically see the question form above his head.

"Look," says Steve, "I might not have been entirely straight with you--"

"About the fact that you're Captain America?" says Tony with forced nonchalance, "Yeah, I know."

Steve stares. "So this whole thing between us is because of the Captain American thing, not--"

And there it is.

"Yeah, no," says Tony, before Steve can complete the sentence, "Steve, did I seem like I liked you less before I knew you were Captain America?"

"Well, there was the entire month of August when you wouldn't talk to me--"

"I wouldn't talk to you? Steve, you went out of your way to avoid me. Of course I was pissed."

"What?" says Steve, blinking rapidly, "I was avoiding you because you seemed like you were really mad."

"And not because you thought I would keep saying things about Captain America you didn't like?"

"Well no, I was over that as soon as I stepped out of the room."

It's Tony's turn to blink. Steve's body language is sincere, relaxed.

"Oh. Huh, guess I misread that one."

Steve grins wryly, lip twisting up on one side. "Anything else we should get out in the open?"

"Oh yeah," says Tony, clearing his throat, fingers tapping a beat against his thighs, "You knew Howard Stark right?"

"Right," says Steve, "Distant relative?"

"My old man, actually."

Tony sees Steve's jaw drop before he has to look away.

"Aren't you a little...young to be his son?"

"Yeah, I was a really late addition to the family," says Tony, still studying the scratches in his laminate floor, "Does that make it weird, the two of us?"

"Not really," says Steve, shuffling closer, "If I thought about it too hard, I wouldn't be able to make time with anyone this century."

"So you and Kate--" says Tony, looking up.

"Are really just friends," says Steve, "Clint worries about her, so I walk with her to her night clubs."

"And the get-up was because--"

"She likes to play dress up," says Steve, long-suffering, and yeah, Tony can commiserate. What Kate wants, Kate gets. "So, you and Bruce--"

"Are really just friends," says Tony, smirking, "I like to drag him out to bars to complain about unattainable boys."

"Unattainable, huh?" says Steve.

"Well, if I had known that all it'd take for you to put out is a concussion, I'd've brained myself long ago."

"Please don't do that," says Steve plaintively, "That was honestly terrifying. So do you kiss all your friends?"

"What k--" Tony blinks, "Oh, the disaster on La Brea? We both turned at the wrong time and headbutted each other. I think my nose was bruised for a week."

Steve leans in, brushing delicate little butterfly kisses down Tony's nose, lingering for a moment, before licking a wet stripe up it. Tony yelps and jerks back. Steve, the asshole, doesn't look even slightly contrite, so Tony tackles him against the laminate floor, still strewn with old comic books and posters.

They never make it to the bed.

 

Tony is proud that, when he returns to work, he only needs to rest once, a quick break against the railing to rest his leg, halfway up the ramped driveway to the Pacific Palisades neomodern. What was once the bare guts of a building is now morphing into a house, the subfloor prepared for the four-foot wide tiles Danny promised would blow their minds, the entire back wall replaced with floor to ceiling glass, with the motors for the automated blinds already installed.

Clint saunters over, his binder tucked under his armpit.

"Hey boss," says Clint, "So Misty and I were talking about the fireplace placement."

"Right," says Tony. His plans included a free-standing fireplace dividing the living room from the dining room, set in an eye-popping travertine column.

"Okay, so, I was looking at these other houses, and well, just look," says Clint, handing over a laser printout of a photo of a red-brick fireplace, set right into two-floor curtain wall, showcasing the greenery outside. In the margins, Clint has sketched a tunnel fireplace in its place, set off by the lines of the window trim. The next few pages behind him show a couple different models, but all in a diffident matte black. Tony glances between the photo and the Santa Monica mountain vista framed by the back wall.

Tony's never had a natural eye for interior design--what skills he has h been picked up after years of meticulously breaking down other people's works into their individual parts. Clint, though, has the knack. What Clint can't describe in words is laid out plainly in the photos--a practically invisible fireplace recessed into a wall of thin black window frames, not a centerpiece at all, but a Mondrian-esque frame to the landscape outside, complementing the harsh beauty instead of competing against it.

"You know what, this is a terrific idea," says Tony, impressed, "Have Misty and you discussed the logistics of doing it?"

"Yep," says Clint, "We went over the construction drawings for the building and the Building Standards Code before determining the feasibility. She's pretty confident, and I'm pretty hyped about it."

Tony blinks and says, "Thems some pretty hifalutin words."

"Screw you boss," says Clint cheerfully, "I'm great with words. So what about the fireplace?"

"The fireplace is great. The fireplace is awesome, even," says Tony, "What else have you been hiding from me?"

Clint walks him through the rest of his modified floorplan, and they end up axing most of Tony's additions, bringing in local, natural materials instead, letting the house be an extension of the rugged slopes out the window.

"You know, I don't think we want to go with off-the-shelf furniture," Clint says, "Maybe we should commission someone to design an entire set."

And Tony says, "Commission? Fuck that, I know exactly what we need. Here, gimme that," and sketches out a set of furniture, already dreaming of roughhewn lumber and wide panes of glass perched on thin steel legs.

 

He rents time at a local woodshop, carving driftwood into benches and end tables, creamy Pacific madone and Pepperwood spalted all the way through, bending and welding steel tubes into metal frames set aside to be sandblasted later, coming home at the end of the day smelling of sawdust and welding fumes, tired, sore and happy. Steve is very appreciative of Tony's newfound muscles, running his hands over and over again down his lats, licking his shoulders and biceps, biting into the meat of his obliques, until Tony rolls them over and returns the favor.

Even the court summons arriving in the mail can't ruin his mood. Loki is finally getting his just rewards, brought to task by Pepper's mentor, who ends up being a familiar face himself.

"Mr. Fury, how nice to see you again," says Tony, trying not to squirm like a kid in front of Nicholas Fury, Jr., JD, prosecuting attorney, "How's the house?"

Tony can suddenly understand why Mrs. Fury seemed more enthusiastic about the Malibu home than Mr. Fury, seated on the cold, stainless steel joke of an imitation Panton in Fury's brutalist concrete office. He idly wonders what his heating bill must be like. The effect it has on defendant attorneys must be worth whatever the cost might be--already, the opposition has tried to settle twice on the civil lawsuit Tony is leveling against Loki, on top of the criminal case.

" _Monica_ is very satisfied with your house, Mr. Stark," says Fury, leveling him with a flat stare.

Tony tries not to wince.

 

The Pacific Palisades house sells for almost $12 mil, eighty thousand more than the listing price. Tony tries to treat Steve to his hoarded bottle of Pappy Van Winkle in celebration, only to find his entire wet bar (read: kitchen cupboard) completely empty, leaving a single white card laying innocently on the bottom shelf. Tony doesn't need to read it to know the whole thing has Natasha written all over it.

"Looks like you need to participate in this year's Secret Santa exchange to get your whiskey back," says Steve, amused, flipping the card over as if to see the back held any more answer, "Seems like it could be fun."

Tony narrows his eyes at him. "Last year, Barton regifted me a Lynyrd Skynyrd CD."

"How do you know it was regifted?"

"Uh, because I gifted it to him the year before, duh?"

Steve says, eyebrows raised, "Well, you know there's an easy solution to that."

"Yeah," says Tony, snapping his fingers, "Gift him the entire box set. You're a _genius_ , Steve."

Tony, not being a complete asshole, ends up bringing a slim, tasteful power bank with him to the Christmas party, hosted at Clint's condo this year. They were the last ones in the door due to a wardrobe disagreement, finally solved by a compromise--a suit jacket over Tony's Germs band t-shirt, a soft pair of sandblasted jeans to dress down Steve's button-down. Steve goes to kiss Natasha on the cheek while Tony balances both of their gifts on the pile of wrapped presents under the ironic acrylic Christmas tree, a clear sign (har har) that Kate had a hand in planning the party.

The entire gang is here, Misty and Shang-Chi furiously mashing PS4 controllers in the living room, Danny, Betty, Clint and one of Clint's friends hooting and catcalling from the sidelines. On the TV screen, Mitsurugi K.O.s Kilik with an 8-hit combo.

Bruce and Pepper lean against the kitchen divider, discussing an Argentinian meta-theater production about making films, which, nope, Tony is not touching, drunk or sober. He makes his excuses and escapes upstairs, where Luke and Natasha are in the middle of some sort of slow-motion dance.

"This isn't what I think it is?" says Tony.

Luke snorts. "Hey man, it is _exactly_ what you think it is, if what you think it is is tai chi."

"Tie what?" says Tony.

"It's like Chinese yoga," says Luke, "C'mon, I'll show you."

"Will everyone stop telling me to do yoga?" Tony groans, backing down the stairs.

He nearly bumps into Kate, who's standing in the middle of the stairs and talking to a tiny brunette.

"Hey Tony, when'd you get here?" says Kate, as they shuffle around each other in the narrows space, "Tony, this is Jane, from London. Jane, this is Tony, Clint's boss."

Tony is about to shake Jane's hand when the door swings open and _Thor walks in_.

Tony nearly flies off the stairs, tackling Thor in a giant bear hug. Thor laughs, the sound vibrating all the way through his beefy frame, like champagne bubbles between Tony's ribs, hauling Tony in a circle, his arms crushing all the air out of Tony's lungs. Tony can't keep the stupid grin off his face.

"How goes it with you, Anthony?" says, Thor, booming voice so much richer than what phone lines can transmit, arm still clasped around Tony's bicep.

"So much better now that you're here," says Tony, clapping him on the shoulder, "Best Christmas present yet."

"Anthony, have you met my betrothed, Jane?"

Kate's mouth drops open. "Betrothed means fiancee, right?"

And then handshakes are being distributed all around, Bruce and Pepper passing around flutes of champagne, Natasha expertly herding them toward the living room without anyone noticing.

Natasha climbs onto a stool, delivering her Secret Santa spiel to all of them crowded around the sectional sofa, same as every year, and Tony tunes her out, leaning against Steve's warm side, still grinning, drunk off happiness. Steve, noticing his wandering attention, darting a quick glance at Tony, drops a kiss on his temple.

"And for that, you get to go last," says Kate, "Pay attention, love birds."

Tony uses his superior age advantage to stick his tongue out at her.

Tony's present goes to Clint's friend, whose name turns out to be Sam.

"Thanks, man," he says, his grin lighting his whole face up, "I really needed one of these. My battery's always dying right when I need to use my phone."

"Yeah, and now you've got no excuses left for never picking up my calls," says Clint, flicking one of his new Nerf darts at Sam. It bounces off the center of his chest, but Sam just laughs.

"Oh, that's how it is, is it?"

"That's how it is," agrees Clint, "Hey, who's left?"

Bruce murmurs politely over his new organic vegan naturally-scented candles, Steve unwraps a Neocube desk ornament, hundreds of magnetic balls packed into the shape of a cube, and then it's Tony's turn. Natasha hands him a gift-wrapped package that can't contain more than a thin envelope.

"Ooh, an Amazon gift cards?" says Tony.

"Or the deeds to a Saleen S7," calls Danny, to general cheers and whistles. Tony laughs.

He rips open the package, which does in fact contain an envelope, revealing a folded letter. He raises an eyebrow at Natasha, who makes a "get on with it" gesture with one hand, and unfolds the single page.

_Dear Mr. Stark,_

_I write to confirm your re-admission to graduate study in the Department of Architecture for the term starting September, 2015. Let me add my congratulations on this recognition of your academic accomplishments and professional promise._

"I--" says Tony, running his eyes over the MIT masthead, his school ID number, folded up and hidden away in a dusty attic so many years ago, his dream abandoned when he left his old life behind.

"I can't--" he tries again, the words sticking in his throat. Something wet splatters on the letter, blurring the words, and Tony realizes there are tear tracks burning paths down his cheeks, swiping at them hurriedly.

"I petitioned the school to readmit you," says Steve gently, crouching in front of him, "But really, I had a lot of back up."

"Back up from whom?" says Tony, confusedly.

The front door bangs open, Mr. Fury blowing in like a storm, his shin-length duster sweeping behind him theatrically, letting in a gust of cool air, making enough of a dramatic entrance that it takes a second for Tony to spot Mrs. Fury, standing right next to him.

"Merry Christmas, motherfuckers," says Mr. Fury, "I see you've all received your presents."

"Tony was just saying that he couldn't possibly accept his present," says Steve, lightly, like he was mentioning that it was so nice that it hadn't rained on Christmas Eve.

"Of course he will," says Mr. Fury, just as lightly, "The bright young man I know wouldn't throw away the chance of a lifetime like this."

Tony swallows, croaks, "I don't mean to be ungrateful, but monetarily --"

"The Avengers commissioned you to design furniture, didn't we?" says Clint, "For how much?"

"Four percent on sales, plus six percent on the amount exceeding the listing price," Pepper rattles off, pretending to buff her nails on her shiny blue dress, "For a total of, oh, four hundred and fifty two thousand dollars, less taxes withheld."

"Congratulations, you can afford graduate school," says Mr. Fury, deadpan.

"You'll do so great, honey," adds Mrs. Fury, wrapping her arms around a shell-shocked Tony.

"So you're kicking me out of the Avengers?" says Tony, trying for light, but probably missing by a light-year.

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" says Natasha with overly false surprise, "The couple who bought the Pacific Palisades house has a friend who wants to hire an interior designer to restore a house he recently bought."

"Which is me," says Clint, "And I told them I would need to hire some consultants, including my furniture designer."

Steve nudges Tony knee with his own. "You've got until September, right? That leaves us plenty of time yet."

"Yeah," breathes Tony, unable to stay worried under the force of Steve's smile, "Yeah, let's do this."

A flute of champagne appears in front of him, and he takes it, blinking in surprise. Half of the guests are also holding more champagne, Natasha weaving expertly between the throng of bodies to deliver the rest.

"To Tony Stark, and his ridiculous taste in art," says Mr. Fury, and they toast him, Steve's face tomato red, and Tony hiding his laughter in his glass.

 

Thor tries to apologize for his brother after the party, but Tony waves him off.

"Shh, stop, or I'll have to apologize for ruining your brother's life," says Tony, cradling the bottle of Pappy Van Winkle Natasha finally returned to him, "Nick is gunning to throw the books at Loki."

"And I hope the experience will teach him some lessons," says Thor, gravely, "He injured you gravely, my friend."

"It healed," says Tony, glad that Thor can't see the blotchy yellow marring his thigh, the scars where doctors had to cut him open to sew the muscles back together. "Plus that means you gotta buy me two rounds now."

"I will buy you the entire bar to restore our friendship," booms Thor, "Or any other boon that you crave."

"You never lost it, big guy," says Tony, "But hey, now that I think about it, there _is_ something you can do for me."

 

The new Avenger office, on the top floor of a mixed-used building, within sight of Pershing Square, ends up being paid for mostly out of pocket. Danny's company renovates the space free of charge, with all of their latest materials--German porcelain tiles, northern Italian fixtures, California marble and chinkapin oak flooring.

"It's free advertising for me," explains Danny, dropping a stack of business cards on the end table by the reception area, a semi-circle of business lounge chairs where Natasha can sit and work her realtor magic on new clients.

The rest of the office is an open office space, with a giant worktable for Thor and Clint to mix all of their construction and interior design drawings, their laptops and tablets half buried under the mess, and a free-standing cork board for Steve to neatly pin his itemized schedule and tasks. In the back is a break area, with a kitchenette, a TV and an entire row of arcade machines purchased with the entire amount of what they could litigate out of Loki. Tony takes a vindictive glee out of spending at last fifteen minutes a day shooting aliens on the Galaga machine.

Steve slides an iced mint tea on a coaster next to Tony's hand, where he's erasing and redraws the bracing for a seat back, and look, Tony knows things, okay? He knows every inch of Steve's smile, hotter than the Malibu sun, that his friendship with the Avengers isn't based on physical proximity, and knows that for every door that closes in his life, he can open new ones. Things are going to be just fine.


End file.
